Tidal
by Slippin' Mickeys
Summary: Love jump-started by wind. The final chapter is up.
1. Default Chapter

Tidal By Slippin' Mickeys red_phile@yahoo.com  
  
Category: Harm/Mac  
  
Setting: Season Eight, technically. But I make few allusions.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: Chicago was the impetus. Love jump-started by wind.  
  
Note: This is my very first foray into JAG fanfiction. This is chapter one in a story that I haven't seen the ending of. I'm relatively new to the JAG fandom, and I do hope to stay a while. As this is currently a work in progress, changes could occur at any time. If you like what you read, please let me know! If you don't like what you read, please let me know. But be kind. This fandom is new and I don't know anybody. ;)  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
When the moon circles the Earth, it pulls with it the ocean.  
  
She used to lay in bed and think about it-how the world can be your compass. Moss growing on one side of a tree, the North Star, sunsets on the horizon. And even if you can't see it, you know the moon is above you when the tide is high.  
  
She felt that with him. When he was near, her blood would sing, rising to meet him whenever he passed. Standing in the doorway of her office, she can feel him even now, her skin prickling and flushing on the high tide of love.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
"You know, you could save yourself a step if you just poured the sugar packets directly into your mouth."  
  
Mac tapped the stirring straw on the edge of her coffee mug and ignored him.  
  
"You're here early," she said, looking up from her desk to greet him.  
  
He had his cover tucked under one arm a large manila envelope in his other hand. He scratched his chin with its corner absently.  
  
"Didn't want to miss a cuppa from the first pot. If you get here after eight, the coffee's already weak."  
  
"Better not let Tiner here you say that," she said, blowing across the surface of her mug, "he's trying to market his blend."  
  
"The Law School Special Espresso?" Harm asked, sidling up to her desk.  
  
"I don't have the heart to tell him it's been around for years."  
  
"Still not strong enough," he said.  
  
She took a demure sip and looked at him through her lashes. "And I almost don't have the heart to tell you that I'm still making it."  
  
"Huh," Harm said, narrowing his eyes at her, "then I guess I just like it when *you* make it."  
  
He dropped the envelope on her desk and backed out of her office, flashing teeth.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
She was the reason he kept a digital clock in his office and a bottle of sparkling cider in his fridge.  
  
She was five feet ten of haughty self assurance, and not only could she pull off jarhead green, but she could make it look good.  
  
He couldn't count how many languages she'd sworn at him in, but he could remember the shape her lips took every time she did.  
  
She was the reason he'd learned how to cook triple meat-cheese lasagna, and she was also the reason he breathed.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
For two people whose first week spent in each other's company involved being held at gunpoint, eluding federal agents and a hostage situation, they were surprisingly normal. What's more, they were healthy, employed, had all of their teeth and most of their integrity.  
  
Granted, they had enough issues to start their own magazine, but there was something to be said for the fortitude it took to be as well-adjusted as they were.  
  
It was probably that fortitude that kept them from getting involved, and also why everyone else assumed they eventually would.  
  
____________________________________________________  
  
They were a half an hour into what Mac referred to as the Mile High Trivia Hour.  
  
"The first flight attendants were actually registered nurses," he said, shifting in his seat and giving her a sideways look. They both knew he could do better.  
  
"Betsy Ross was a born with a full set of teeth," she countered, letting it go.  
  
"Michigan has more lighthouses than any state in the Union."  
  
"There are 115 ridges around the edge of a quarter."  
  
"Most American cars honk in the key of 'F'."  
  
"You win," she said, conceding. Her attention usually waned when he got on the subject of planes or cars, and she wanted to head him off at the pass.  
  
He smiled victoriously and watched as the sun's last rays panned across her face.  
  
Their plane was turning south for its final approach into Chicago, and she turned to the window to watch as the ground rose slowly to meet them.  
  
"Do you think they'll recover the body?" She asked after a moment, turning to him.  
  
His countenance turned grim. "At this time of year?" He asked for the sake of it and then shook his head.  
  
She nodded silently and then unfolded his long pea coat from around herself, handing it carefully back to him. He took it without a word and pulled his leg from the aisle so the flight attendant could get through.  
  
Civilian commercial flight was old hat for them and they knew how each other worked. She was always cold on planes, and he never fit in them. He always let her borrow his coat when the weather necessitated his bringing it, and he didn't push as hard for an exit row when it didn't.  
  
"I hate these," she returned, and he didn't answer. She knew he hated them, too.  
  
An investigation into the purported death of a seaman taking part in a rescue exercise in Lake Michigan conducted dually with the US Coast Guard awaited them upon landing. The fact that the Coast Guard was involved made the situation sticky, so the admiral had sent them to aide in the investigation.  
  
The little boy in the seat in front them stood up in his chair and stared at Harm over the back of the seat as his mother was fiddling to stow her purse for landing. A three-year-old look of impressed awe met him, the boy immediately taken with the uniform. When he shifted his gaze to Mac, he gave a squeak of fright and ducked down, just as his mother turned to berate him.  
  
Oddly embarrassed and a little hurt, Mac stole a glance at Harm who looked at his fingernails, pretending not to notice.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
The brittle November wind whipped at them as they walked out the automatic door just this side of baggage claim. Mac considered the names Chicago went by; the Second City, the Third Coast, wondering how many they'd gone through before they'd found one that was apt.  
  
He looked so heroic in his uniform, with his coat billowing out behind him and his cover tilted into the wind. She tried to picture a little boy lost, fatherless and alone in a world that wasn't as sympathetic to servicemen and their families. She felt a pang of something between pity and pride and stepped off the curb to follow him. If heroes were made in such ways, then perhaps the world didn't need them.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
For once, the investigation was going well.  
  
They were at a small Italian restaurant off of Navy Pier, huddled together at a small table in the corner, leaning toward each other, quiet and familiar.  
  
"I just think it's ironic and unfortunate," Mac was saying, "that a man was lost during the very exercise that would be sent to save him."  
  
"Irony is rife with misfortune, Mac," Harm said, "otherwise they'd call it something else."  
  
Mac rolled her eyes and Harm took a different tack. He liked playing the devil's advocate with her, and she was getting hip to his tactics.  
  
"The Navy needs to-"  
  
She cut him off.  
  
"Don't start," she said, not without humor, spearing an asparagus from his plate.  
  
He shot her a smile, knowing he'd been caught.  
  
The laugh lines around his eyes were gradually reaching out toward his temples which were barely but visibly now flecked with gray. She felt a pang of affection toward him- her loping hero, tall and tragic, wizened and incomplete. He struck chords in her that rang resonant and deep and she desperately wanted to reach across the table and smooth his cowlick.  
  
His long legs touched hers under the table and she reached for her water instead.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
Some people made fun of the fact that the United States Navy kept a port on the Great Lakes, but Harm wasn't one of them.  
  
The waves hitting the piles of the pier were big and choppy, and the sky overhead dark gray and ominous. He was reminded of a nasty fall day in his first year out of the Academy, attending a funeral of a former classmate in Detroit at the Maritime Sailors Cathedral. Ian Douglas had been lost during a rescue exercise, his death's circumstances eerily similar to those of the death they were now investigating. The church's bell rang that day-would chime once for every man lost on the Lakes-and it would chime again when their investigation was complete and Petty Officer Albert Williams death made official.  
  
He looked down at Mac beside him and remembered when he'd been lost at sea himself, how his first thought had been of her. The cold from that day touched him through the many layers of his warm, dry uniform and he paused to collect himself.  
  
Mac sensed his delay and turned to him.  
  
"Harm?" She asked, checking herself mid-step. "You okay?"  
  
His eyes flashed to her unadorned left hand, carrying their bag of Italian left-overs.  
  
"Yeah," he said, catching up to her, "I'm good."  
  
____________________________________________________  
  
A flare of energy always passed through him whenever he saw her out of uniform, testing his galvanic skin response. He wondered sometimes if Clayton Webb and his spy satellites could pick up on it.  
  
Their investigation had been wrapped up in four days, and they weren't scheduled to head back to Washington until tomorrow afternoon.  
  
She was standing outside waiting for him, leaning against a railing facing the other direction.  
  
When she turned to him, he started.  
  
"When did you start smoking?" He asked, incredulous.  
  
The smoke from her cigarette drifted up from her hand, white and thick in the cold. A gust of wind came in and took it suddenly. The end of the cigarette glowed red.  
  
"I didn't," she said to him, ignoring the look on his face and taking a snappy drag. His face wore an expression of jaundiced shock as a yellow streetlamp came on above them. "I was talking with a lieutenant out here while I was waiting for you. He offered me one."  
  
"And you took it?"  
  
"I was cold." She took another hit and looked at him through the smoke, daring him to have a problem with it.  
  
He surprised her by reaching across and taking the cigarette from her fingers. He raised his eyebrows at her, before raising it to his own lips, waiting for her okay.  
  
She nodded at him and he took a deep drag, holding her eyes with his own as he blew the smoke out between them.  
  
She wondered how his lips would taste now, smoky and bitter like ash.  
  
He dropped the burning cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with his foot.  
  
"Let's go," he said, twisting his foot on the ashes and walking away.  
  
She licked her lips and followed, smacking the taste of smoke against her tongue. She already knew from experience, he would taste like nothing but sin.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
They were going to have a baby together.  
  
She remembered this as they walked and realized that they only had a year to go before D day. Her stomach flopped and then fell in her gut when she remembered the small child on the plane. Between the two of them, the only good parenting example they had was Harm's mother, and she tried not to sweat the genes.  
  
She could see a little boy with her feathered wit and his rapscallion smile. He would probably be born breech-misbehaving from the womb.  
  
A year. Less, really.  
  
She hadn't had sex in a really long time.  
  
____________________________________________________  
  
"You ever visited Chicago before, Mac?" He asked her as they walked down the platform from the El.  
  
"Sure I have, Harm."  
  
"No, I know you've been here, but I mean have you *visited*."  
  
"Can't say as I've ever had the pleasure," she said derisively.  
  
"Then you gotta see this."  
  
He took her to a rooftop on the main building of the Naval Training Center. The door screeched as he turned the handle and he had to shove it twice with his hip just to get it open. They took a step through, each scattering stones.  
  
He took her elbow delicately and led her to the other side.  
  
Lake Michigan spread out before them, navy blue and endless, whitecaps snapping up from it as the wind blew in.  
  
"It's beautiful up here," Mac said, "though probably nicer in the summer." She leaned into him affably, not meaning any offense.  
  
"I like it now," he said looking out over the churning water, "it seems more. dangerous."  
  
Mac didn't say anything, but she could see how. He was like a magnet to jeopardy.  
  
He reached a hand out after a moment and pointed northeast over the water.  
  
"Two hundred," he said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"There are over two hundred planes that went down out there," he said, "during training missions in World War II."  
  
"It's a hell of a profession you went after," she said, picturing him climbing down out of a fighter.  
  
"Yeah," he said, flirting his eyebrows at her, ".dangerous."  
  
Mac wondered if maybe she wasn't more like him than she thought. After all, he was drawn to danger, and she was drawn to him.  
  
____________________________________________________  
  
She was riding horses.  
  
There was a herd thundering all around her and the horse she was riding, jet-black and steely, was accelerating through a field at night, going ever faster. The moon's light was bright, shining down on them and pushing shadows all around.  
  
She galloped to the front of the herd and they splashed through a river, coming to an abrupt halt on the shore. Harm stood there, wearing a Marine drill sergeant uniform.  
  
"I thought I heard you coming," he said, and then disappeared through the trees behind him.  
  
When Mac looked down, she was sitting in the driver's seat of a Humvee. She looked to her passenger seat and Harm was sitting there, this time in khakis, a white polo shirt and a leather bomber jacket.  
  
"How did I get here?" She asked him.  
  
He looked at her like she was stupid. "You came pushing sixteen horses," he said.  
  
Mac came awake slowly, the low thread count sheets scratching her cheek. She blew out a breath and rolled over. A bizarre dream, no doubt, and Harm had been in it. She was a little disappointed-she'd had better where he was concerned.  
  
A knock came on her door and she rolled out of bed and walked to it in her t-shirt and Navy shorts (that somewhere along the way she'd stolen from him), not bothering to put on a robe.  
  
"Morning," Harm said as she opened the door, "I brought you breakfast."  
  
He offered a paper bag from Starbuck's and she just caught him running his eyes over her bare legs as she turned back into the room.  
  
"Thanks, Harm," she said, setting the bag carefully down on the table next to the door. She then pointed at one of the two chairs pushed up against it. He was still standing in the open doorway.  
  
"Come in and have a seat," she continued on into the bathroom. "I've got to brush my teeth."  
  
When she emerged, he was sitting at the table, his long spindly legs sticking out into her room like sprawling branches from a timbered tree.  
  
She threw on a corp. sweatshirt and sat down across from him, crinkling the bag open and pulling out an oversize blueberry muffin.  
  
"My favorite," she said.  
  
"I know," he returned, finally meeting her eyes.  
  
She took a big bite and sighed blissfully.  
  
"I had a dream about you last night," she said with her mouth full.  
  
"Yellow light, Colonel," he said softly, trying to hold back a smile. She pelted him in the head with the crumpled up pastry bag. "What was I doing? In your dream, I mean."  
  
"Waiting for me, I think," she answered.  
  
He folded his hands in his lap and studied them, sobered.  
  
"Is that where we are now?" He asked quietly, pressing his lips together and flitting his eyes to hers.  
  
She swallowed the muffin hard, wishing she had some water. It was doughy and heavy going down.  
  
She opened and closed her mouth several times before she finally spoke, leaning forward on her elbows. "Don't start a conversation you aren't prepared to finish," she said.  
  
He looked at her a minute with his head bent, a curious expression on his face.  
  
"Mac," he said, seriously, "This conversation. I've been waiting for you."  
  
She leaned back, looking at him. She was fairly certain any time she'd brought it up, he pushed back, drop and chaff, you're shoes are untied-walking away.  
  
"In my own way. And you've been waiting for me," he continued, leaning forward so that his pant cuffs drifted up his shins, revealing black socks and the dark skin of his shin. "And we've never been in the same place at one time."  
  
"Are we there now?" She asked him, crumbling off bits of muffin but not eating them.  
  
"I'm there," he said, reaching across tentatively to run a fingertip over her arm on the table, "Are you?"  
  
The skin of her arm shivered under him, and she resisted the urge to pull it back.  
  
They were good at arguing. Seeing the polar opposite sides of things, and she automatically wanted to prosecute, defend, tangle with him. They rarely played for the same team, yet they were partners.  
  
Funny how that worked.  
  
He pulled his arm back and leaned back in the chair, considering her muliebral features. Wide eyes and dark hair, she reminded him of rich cocoa. He licked his lips.  
  
"Our flight's at three," he said, "what time is it right now?"  
  
"Three minutes to eight," she said, not moving.  
  
"Tell you what," he said, standing. "I'll be back here in 35 minutes. Wear shoes you can walk in."  
  
He paused as he passed by her, heading for the door. He reached down and linked their pinkies together, squeezing. The door shut behind him with a resonant snick.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
They walked along the deserted beach in silence, stepping around jetsam and driftwood, the sand cold and firm beneath them.  
  
"You asked me once if I would have left Renee for you," he finally says.  
  
She remembers.  
  
"You never answered," she said lightly.  
  
"I did answer."  
  
That stopped her. The sand depressed as she twisted slowly to face him.  
  
"I would have," he said, looking right into her eyes, "left her, I mean. But you walked away."  
  
"It seems one of us is always walking away," she said, her hands in her pockets.  
  
He shifted his shoulders up, hiking his jacket higher around his neck. The breeze had died down from the day before, but coming off of the lake it was bitingly cold. Harm could see her breath.  
  
"We usually have somewhere to go," he answered her, quirking a smile with the side of his mouth.  
  
"Is that why you brought me out here?" Mac asked, "To make sure I couldn't go anywhere?"  
  
He laughed. "Something like that," he said.  
  
They had driven outside of the city, north. There was nothing here but sand and water and smokestacks in the distance.  
  
They held eyes for a moment and then turned slowly to face the water. Their arms touched but their hands stayed ensconced in fabric.  
  
"Why now?" Mac asked him.  
  
"I guess." He blew out a breath of steam, watching it dissipate into nothing.  
  
The waves lapped at the shore several yards in front of them. Harm's eyes were drawn toward a piece of flotsam rolling in the soft wake just to the right of them. He held up a finger to Mac, intending to answer her question. He trotted down to the water's edge and retrieved it without much effort.  
  
It was an old glass coke bottle, thick and greenish glass, corked at the top. There was a rolled up note inside and drips of condensation. A message in a bottle.  
  
He walked back up to where Mac was standing, holding it in front of him considering it.  
  
"I guess it's a little like this," he said, handing it to her. She took it gingerly, a precious herald that wasn't meant for her. She cocked her head to the side, waiting for him to continue.  
  
"If this were floating in the ocean," he went on, touching a fingertip to the cork, "it would be pulled by the waves and the tide. Currents and jet streams and all of the other forces that move the oceans as they do. But these waves," he turned and looked toward the lake, "they're not affected by the moon. The lake doesn't have currents or tides. The wind is the only factor affecting their movement. Here, if there's no wind, there are no waves. This bottle would stay in one place, floating lonesome until a gale came along to push it."  
  
Mac nodded at him, trying to pull together the analogy.  
  
He took a breath and turned to her. "I've been floating lonesome, myself," he said, "I guess I just needed the wind at my back."  
  
Mac would like Chicago for the rest of her days. The Windy City blustered fierce, but it blew love into her life.  
  
END CHAPTER ONE 


	2. Tidal, Chapter Two

This is the second installment of TIDAL by Slippin' Mickeys.  
  
You can find the rating, summary, etc. in the first installment.  
  
Author's Note: There may be errors--formatting, canon, or otherwise, for which I sincerely apologize. I'm new to this fandom and working without a beta (or a JAG friend to bounce ideas off). (I know. Major faux pas.) If there's anyone out there that could recommend a good JAG beta, I'd be happy to hear it. red_phile@yahoo.com  
  
Thanks! I hope you enjoy. Any and all feedback is appreciated.  
  
TIDAL By Slippin' Mickeys  
  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
They were weather-beaten and dented, damaged goods. Pretty on the outside, but slightly fucked in the head. It was perverse the way it worked. They were perfect for each other, there really could be no one else.  
  
She reached up and ran her hand lightly over his cheek. She wanted to kiss him but the timing didn't seem right. This was too profound a moment for them, she knew if she kissed him she would be outside herself instantly and right now she didn't want to miss a thing.  
  
He seemed to push into her hand slightly, leaning into her touch. His eyes never left hers. His cheek was sandpapery under her fingers and she remembered that fingertips have more nerve endings than most places on the body. Most.  
  
"I didn't shave this morning."  
  
"The clean-shaven officer?" she scolded lightly, running her thumb over his chin.  
  
"This is going to break all the rules," he said.  
  
__________________________________________________________  
  
The military was all about convention and discipline. How he'd managed to stay in this long was a complete mystery to her.  
  
What would they do now? They both loved their jobs and they were good at them.  
  
At times, she imagined them not as Batman and Robin, but Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, riding the fence of lawlessness right there under everyone's noses.  
  
With her luck, they'd probably get caught.  
  
Of course, with Harm in the equation, they'd probably summarily get off.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
They walked down the beach for a while not even touching.  
  
Mac laughed softly after minutes of silence. "This is so strange," she said.  
  
He gave a chuff of laughter himself, "Isn't it?"  
  
They laughed for a moment and the tension eased. Mac slipped her arm through his.  
  
"Let's forget about the rules for today," she said, "we'll worry about the rest when we get home."  
  
"Let's forget about them forever," he replied lightly, "and not ever go back."  
  
"Do you really want to do that?" Mac asked him, knowing he didn't really mean it.  
  
He stopped walking and turned to her. "You know what, Mac, right now I really think I could."  
  
She kissed him then, next to the inland sea, with its thunder and it's messages, moved only by the wind.  
  
______________________________________________________________________  
  
He kissed her again in a museum with butterflies in her hair.  
  
They walked away from the lake, chilled but heartened, and it was nearing dinner time when they walked through the doors to the greenhouse.  
  
Harm took her to Lincoln Park after they left the beach, wanting her to see more of the city, wanting to see more of her. In the car he'd called the office, told them that something had come up and that they wouldn't be able to make their flight. Tomorrow was a door they had to walk through, but at least they had today.  
  
They passed by a Science Museum and Mac looked at the list of exhibits outside and then pulled him in. The woman working the box office told them they had only an hour before the museum closed. They were looking at the entrance kiosk when Harm felt a tug on his hand.  
  
"Come on," Mac said quietly, pulling him along as if she had a secret to tell him.  
  
The greenhouse was quiet when they walked in, they had it to themselves.  
  
Harm glanced at the sign to the butterfly house as they were walking under it.  
  
"What-" he began to say, but she turned and put a finger to his lips.  
  
"Shh," she whispered, "listen."  
  
Harm listened. There, among the quiet greenery and the gurgling fountain, he could hear the whisper of butterfly wings.  
  
This was peace, he thought. This was a moment only for them. Amid the chaos of their lives, they would at least have this. He squeezed her hand and closed his eyes, capturing a moment of rapture.  
  
When he opened them, Mac was looking up with a small fascinated smile on her face. A butterfly had landed in her hair.  
  
This woman before him, she was the nectar to his soul, the balm that smoothed the rough edges of it, replacing the torn off pieces and feeding it, keeping it whole. It was as if the butterfly had sensed this too and wanted a taste of it for itself.  
  
He nudged his foot between hers and leaned down, her breath fanning his face once before their lips met.  
  
This kiss wasn't hungry or desperate as had their first real kiss been, on the Admiral's porch. It wasn't a nostalgic grasp at his past as it had been when he'd imagined her as Diane. This was soft and deep and felt like coming home.  
  
He felt her fingers tangle in his hair and pulled back barely an inch, nipping lightly at her nose before whispering.  
  
"Are you feeling this?"  
  
A chrysalis split open; a butterfly took it's first flight.  
  
__________________________________________________________________  
  
How lucky was she in a world he inhabited that she could never be lost. Her compass, her friend. As untouchable as Luna and as reliable as the same.  
  
The moon's light was cold and lazy, the darkness around them inky-if they stepped too far away from each other it might swallow them whole. She could tell he was next to her when she saw his breath and felt a heat on the small of her back. He led her through an open door.  
  
Mac rubbed her hands together, shooting him a skeptical look.  
  
"Ice cream, Harm?" She said dubiously.  
  
"What?" He asked, all innocence.  
  
"For one thing it's 40 degrees outside. For another," she gave a showy look to the freezer case, perusing the flavors, "I don't see Tofutti Vanilla Dream."  
  
"So we'll order yogurt," he said, taking a step closer to her, leaning into her space, "and I'll keep you warm."  
  
She imagined a spilled glob of hot fudge on his chin and her licking it off. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.  
  
She was a tall woman, but he seemed to grow bigger the longer he stood over her. She felt small standing there in the empty ice cream parlor, all of Harm's attention focused on her.  
  
His search for his father, his Sisyphean task, was ended now. He had no one else to focus on save her. With her dipsomaniacal thirst and her sober stare. How strange that she didn't feel threatened. How strange that she didn't feel weak.  
  
The teenage girl behind the counter heaved a bored sigh and shoved off the countertop behind her, picking at hot pink fingernail polish. She flitted her eyes to them, paying half attention.  
  
"What can I get you?" She asked, without a trace of enthusiasm.  
  
"Two of those," he said, pointing to an interesting flavor. Mac didn't really care which one.  
  
"With hot fudge," she was sure to add, biting her lip.  
  
______________________________________________________________________  
  
"So," he said, walking her to her quarters.  
  
He waited for her to pull out the key and she fiddled with it on purpose, drawing out their time together in increments.  
  
"So," she said.  
  
It had started to snow. Light, dusty flakes that would melt as soon as they hit the earth. A shot across the bow from winter. 'I'm coming,' it said.  
  
Something else was coming too, though Mac didn't dare hope what it was.  
  
She looked at the ground, suddenly blushing, hoping he would think it was the cold.  
  
"Do you want to come in?" She asked, meeting his gaze.  
  
"Mac." he said, not moving. "I can't."  
  
She flinched slightly, a bit stung though she knew she didn't need to be.  
  
He reached out to her, an act of solace. "It's not a question of wanting," he said.  
  
She felt suddenly stupid. Of course they couldn't. Not now, and certainly not here. She turned around quickly and jammed the key in the door. "Right," she said, feigning indifference, "of course."  
  
He pulled on her elbow and she turned back to him. He leaned in and kissed her soundly and quickly, running his tongue against the inside of her upper lip before pulling back. She was breathless and surprised. He flitted his eyes in both directions, making sure they hadn't been seen. He squeezed her elbow and took a step back.  
  
"We'll figure this out," he said decisively, with his head bent towards her in that way he had of assuring even the most guilty defendant that they'd get off. Of course she believed him. When it came to him she was guilty as sin.  
  
He walked backward several steps holding her gaze and then trotted off toward his own room.  
  
Mac swayed a bit on her feet and slapped the doorway with her hand, holding herself up. It took her a moment to walk through the door and slam it.  
  
He was right and he drove her crazy. He would probably be really good in bed.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________  
  
She'd asked him once if she was good for him.  
  
He was wrapped up in changing careers, and she was wrapped up in Mic. He'd been acting pissy and infantile and he was in a bad mood when Mac wasn't around and a worse one when she was. Renee chose to ignore his attitude and expedited it by flying to LA on business.  
  
He'd snapped at Harriet in the bullpen and had felt so bad about it, he was skulking in his office.  
  
He heard his door snap shut and looked up quickly. Mac was standing akimbo just inside the doorway. She didn't look happy.  
  
"What the hell was that all about?"  
  
"By all means, please come in, Colonel," he said derisively.  
  
"Cut the crap, Harm," she said, softening only a bit and taking a step closer to his desk, "what's going on with you?"  
  
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes.  
  
"I don't know," he sighed, relenting his attitude.  
  
She moved to the chair across from his desk.  
  
"You know Harm," she said, "I think I know you better than anybody, but sometimes I just can't figure you out."  
  
"I can't figure me out, Mac," he said, "I'm surprised you'd even want to try."  
  
"Don't change the damn subject," she said, trying to contain a small smile but failing.  
  
He smiled at her and dropped his eyes to the floor. "I guess it's just you and this whole." he sighed heavily, "I'm sorry."  
  
"Apologize to Harriet, not to me," she said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. She seemed to consider him a moment after he nodded, agreeing.  
  
"If it's me." she finally said, "Do I do this to you?"  
  
He didn't say anything. She messed him up inside, but only in the best ways he could think of.  
  
"God Harm," she said, "sometimes I don't think I'm any good for you."  
  
That surprised him and he looked up.  
  
"You're the best part of me," he said quickly, simply.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth to say something.  
  
His phone rang then, Renee calling to tell him she'd arrived at the airport, her timing impeccable as ever.  
  
He rolled over in his bed, remembering. The best part of him was sleeping four doors down, and he was restless until he could be with her. For now he was incomplete.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
"Jesus, Harm, you look like hell."  
  
Not exactly the romantic greeting he had in mind, but it was certainly to the point.  
  
"Colonel Mackenzie," he said, nodding to her as they met outside his room. The visiting officer's quarters were crawling with people. "I'll drive," he said, taking her bags from her and popping the trunk.  
  
She was settled in the passenger seat by the time he got in. He put on his seat belt and turned to smile at her before he put the keys in the ignition.  
  
She reached across the console then, putting a hand on his arm.  
  
"I wasn't kidding, Harm, you look awful," she said, her forehead wrinkled in worry, "did you sleep at all last night?"  
  
"I'll sleep on the plane," he said, looking away. His arm was tingling under her touch.  
  
She rubbed her thumb against his jacket absently.  
  
"Why the plane?" She asked, still concerned. "And not your bed?"  
  
He huffed a self-depreciating laugh and gave her a look askance.  
  
"You'll be there," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ ____  
  
A billboard flashed past, advertising car parts. He stole a look at Mac in the passenger seat. Her collar was a bit crooked, she'd obviously been distracted this morning. He wanted to reach over and fix it. He wanted to reach over, period.  
  
He'd never been a terribly sentimental person, but Mac brought out feelings in him he never thought himself privy to.  
  
He remembered coming out of the movies as a kid, inspired by the action. Running down the sidewalk ahead of his mother like a space commander, like a soldier, like a cowboy. In 'Prometheus Unbound' Shelley wrote about Life, Joy, Empire and Victory, inspired by the beauty of Rome. Sitting in a car with Mac, Harm decided that three out of four weren't bad. And in the gossamer memory of a kiss, he felt almost as if he could conquer the world.  
  
Not that Mac would condone any such action. She'd probably grab him by the nuts and make him go home.  
  
She caught him smiling at the thought.  
  
"What?" she asked, grinning herself.  
  
It had snowed a bit the night before and the roads were slushy. A plow roared by them, showering sparks on the asphalt.  
  
"Nothing," he said, flicking on the windshield wipers, not really trusting himself to speak.  
  
END CHAPTER TWO 


	3. Tidal, Part Three

Tidal By Slippin' Mickeys red_phile@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Other yada: In the first couple chapters.  
  
Author's Notes: First off, I've stopped calling them chapters and taken to calling them parts. That said, I'm SO sorry that this part has taken so long to get out there. Real Life has descended on me, and I'm afraid it hasn't been terribly kind. In any event, I do hope you enjoy this and I hope there are still readers out there who even remember this story at all! Also, special thanks to usnavychic for putting herself up to being my beta! I bet you wish she got her hands on this chapter before you did. Rest assured she'll kick through the entire story before it's posted in it's entirety. Again, those of you still with me, I really appreciate it! All feedback is petted and loved and kept in a cotton-lined cigar box, complete with lettuce treats and a water dish.  
  
PART THREE  
  
The dust of autumn was blown away by the winter wind. It puffed in a cloud and then settled softly into the empty places once filled by regret.  
  
Mac was glad for the change. This seasonal shift was a metaphor, sure, but the temperature dipped just as true. Her stomach did too when she saw him.  
  
He'd carried her bags for her and touched her cheek. He wore stripes on his shoulder and his heart on his sleeve. He'd never done that before, really. He liked to think that he kept his emotions masked; a shrug of the shoulders, a tilt of the head, but she always knew what he was thinking. The world knew now. He wore his affection for her like a metal on his chest. She thought she caught him humming the Officer and a Gentleman theme as they were checking their luggage.  
  
To hell with the rules, she thought carelessly, openly admiring the way his pants fit his hips. If everyone followed the rules, they'd both be out of a job.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
She drew the eye of nearly every man in the airport, and some of the women too. He was used to it, of course, but now something felt different. He fought off his initial flare of proprietary jealousy by telling himself that it was the uniform, but after he caught a Northwest copilot biting his fist, he took a step closer to her and started shooting looks.  
  
She pulled up short when they were halfway to their gate and turned to him.  
  
"Do you want me to just stop walking so you can pee in a circle around me?" She asked him.  
  
He looked to the side sheepishly, knowing he'd been caught.  
  
"Commander?" She said, not without humor, "I'm sure I can find an airport worker to put up a Wet Floor sign, and you can just growl if anyone gets too close."  
  
He glared at her with a quiet glimmer in his eye.  
  
"Harm," she said, her tone a little more gentle, "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"Everything just feels," he began, ". tenuous."  
  
She regarded him for a moment and then reached up and kissed him right on the lips, there in the middle of the airport terminal.  
  
"Cemented a little more there, sailor?" She stood there staring up at him, looking defiant and nonchalant. Her lips were glistening, it was driving him mad.  
  
After a stunned moment he shook himself.  
  
"You're hopeless, Rabb," she said, "every person in this airport can see right through you."  
  
"Is that a bad thing?" He said after a moment.  
  
"Right now? It's the sweetest thing I've ever seen." She smiled at him and he stood up a little straighter. "Come on, flyboy," she said, pivoting in the direction of their gate, "if you promise not to kill anyone between here and Washington, I promise not to run off with any flight attendants."  
  
He grinned at her and offered her his arm. "I'm not making any promises."  
  
She flitted away the comment.  
  
"Thank you," she said, slipping her arm through his.  
  
"My pleasure," he replied.  
  
And it was.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ _________  
  
He'd once heard love described as friendship caught on fire. And if Mac's flammable singularity had endeared her to his mind, it had most certainly lit the tinder of his heart.  
  
They parted ways at the baggage claim in Dulles. He walked backward away from her, his steps sluggish and reluctant.  
  
They'd agreed to talk to the Admiral tomorrow, though neither was really certain what they'd say. Harm didn't worry terribly much at what that might be, the JAG had to have seen this coming. He did worry though, about the other end of the conversation. The solution seemed hazy and pragmatic, but at least the problem was manifest.  
  
If only the path ahead of him were just as so. For once in his life he was more interested in the journey than the destination.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and jeans and he looked strong and young and positively sexy. She indulged for a moment in the look of him from a purely female perspective. He was tall and thick through the shoulders, lean through the waist. He could pull off a uniform and just about anything else he wore, though if she were being honest with herself, she wanted little more than to see him in anything more than his shadow.  
  
He turned to her then and a smile lit his face. In the second of seeing her, he was radiant and focused, glowing. He had the look of someone who had walked into serendipity and could keep it in his pocket.  
  
"Hey," he said, surprised but pleased, "what are you doing here?"  
  
He'd been organizing his desk drawers and trying to sort out his life. There were things he'd kept that he had no real need for but refused to part with because they'd been touched by her. A notebook she'd doodled in, a movie stub, a book full of lawyer jokes she'd gotten him as a gag. He recognized the pang of juvenile sentimentality for what it was, but shoved them back in the drawer just the same.  
  
She was more than a match for him, which he hadn't dared hope to find, and certainly not in one as bewitching as she. He'd never been able to pull anything over on her. She was leggy and secure and sharp as a trephine. Every little look from her shook him up inside.  
  
"Couldn't sleep," she said on a contradictory yawn, slipping off her shoes like she owned the place.  
  
She moved around his luggage that was still sitting by the door and to the couch. She flopped down, slouching out of her jacket. He walked up to her and took it without a word, hanging it on a coat rack.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
She had her legs tucked under her in the corner of his couch, curled up like a cat.  
  
"I don't want to be in the office tomorrow," she said, "tiptoeing around each other like there's nothing between us."  
  
Harm had been hoping it was something a little more sinister than guilt and apprehension. He sighed and sat down on the other end of the couch.  
  
"In all of our time working together," he said, "have we ever pretended there wasn't?"  
  
Mac's head dropped back against the sofa, conceding the point.  
  
"I keep oscillating," she said, rolling her head to look at him, "between contempt and apathy for the Navy rules concerning fraternization, and the complete and abject fear over breaking them."  
  
"I know what you mean," he said. "Of course, I've always been kind of good at breaking the rules."  
  
He could think of a few he wanted to break right now.  
  
"You are quite adept," she said, agreeing, laughing.  
  
He laughed with her.  
  
"Is it rubbing off yet?" He asked, flashing a grin and leaning toward her.  
  
He caught a pillow to the head.  
  
She finally sighed out a last bit of laughter and caught his eyes, sobering.  
  
"I shouldn't have come over."  
  
He was unexpectedly hurt, but she made no move to get up from the couch. They weren't even touching and he didn't want her to go. He was on his best behavior.  
  
"Why did you come over?" He asked.  
  
"I guess I'm looking for reassurance," she looked at the ceiling, "that this is going to work out. That we're not about to jeopardize our careers and our lives as they are for something as impulsive and un-military as."  
  
"Love?" He finished for her. She turned to look at him again, one eye slightly obscured by a lock of hair. "I can't give you that kind of assurance, Mac."  
  
"No one can," she said, a smile turning up the corners of her lips, "that doesn't stop me from wanting it anyway."  
  
They sat in a comfortable silence, contemplating the deep water they found themselves treading.  
  
"You know that song by REO Speedwagon?" he said, suddenly.  
  
"Oh God," Mac replied, her eyes flitting to his guitar and back, "please don't."  
  
He shot her a smile and got up, the couch creaking underneath him.  
  
"Do you want some tea?" He asked.  
  
"I'd love some," she said.  
  
He banged around in the kitchen and Mac closed her eyes at the domesticity of the moment. She imagined that this was her life, here with him. It dawned on her suddenly that it was. The screaming of the teapot made her jump.  
  
He finally handed her a steaming mug and settled back down, turning to her in full.  
  
"We've been standing on an edge," he said, "and it cuts."  
  
She merely looked at him a moment without answering. It was as if he'd been speaking antiquated words and it was taking her a moment to figure out exactly what he'd been trying to say.  
  
"That it does, Commander," she replied, taking a sip of the brew, "tomorrow'll be one for the books."  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
Saying the words to their commanding officer had actually been easier than she thought it would be.  
  
They were in front of him now, electing to stay standing as if the weight of their situation might not ever allow them to get back up were they to sit. Chegwidden remained impassive throughout their oratory, a finger pressed to his temple. They'd finished what seemed several minutes ago and the silence from the admiral was ostensibly a punishment in and of itself. Mac fought the urge to fidget. AJ took a breath.  
  
"Commander," he said, and Harm snapped-to.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I'll see you Monday morning, I'd like to talk to the Colonel."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Dismissed, Commander."  
  
"Aye aye, Sir."  
  
Harm nodded and caught Mac's eyes as he turned to leave. He gave her the briefest nod and a shot of courage passed between them. A look that could only be shared by those who had been in and were about to go into battle again.  
  
She stood a bit straighter as the office door closed.  
  
"You love him." It wasn't a question.  
  
He'd chased her, killed for her, saved her from gunslingers and superiors and he'd saved her from herself. He trusted her and pined for her and paid her the respect she was due. How could she not love him? How could she possibly be expected to resist?  
  
"Yes."  
  
The admiral nodded, confirming his suspicion.  
  
"If I have to reassign one of you?"  
  
Their eyes held one another's though Mac wouldn't answer.  
  
The admiral nodded at this, too.  
  
"Dismissed, Colonel," he said, "you two have a good weekend." She caught the flicker of a soft smile as she turned, but she couldn't quite make out it's tenor.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
When Harm parked his car at home, he sat for a moment with the engine shut off. It had dawned on him that somewhere in the surrounding few days, be they ahead or behind him, the course of his life had reached a dividing point. It would now consist of two halves. Before he'd given his heart to Mac, and after.  
  
The enormity of that thought left him a bit shaken. He left his wallet, briefcase and coat in the car and went for a walk.  
  
Thunder rumbled in the distance; a storm was brewing.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
There was an old black man sitting on a blue milk carton outside a barbershop, selling flowers. Harm was a half a step past when he checked himself and turned around. He eyed a small bouquet of daisies, and then patted his pockets, realizing he'd left his wallet in his car. "How much?" He asked, nodding in their direction.  
  
The old man was humming James Taylor and rocking softly to his own beat. He paused when Harm spoke.  
  
"How much you got in your pocket?"  
  
Harm dug deep.  
  
"Seventeen cents," he held out in front of himself self-consciously. He shook the small heap of change, hoping to eek out more.  
  
The man nodded once and leaned forward, peering into Harm's cupped palm. He reached forward slowly and took some change.  
  
"Sixteen," he said, handing Harm the best looking bunch. "Never leave a man without a copper in his pocket, at least."  
  
The transaction was complete, and the old man hummed his song. Harm turned back towards home, an officer with an armful of daisies.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
He wasn't surprised at the knock on his door. He was in the process of changing out of uniform and opened it in a t-shirt and dress pants, his feet bare.  
  
The displaced air lifted up the edges of Mac's hair in a quick puff and then was gone.  
  
"I got fired," she said, her face serious.  
  
"What?!" He asked, incredulous.  
  
She held her expression for a moment more and then released it. The grin she wore was more sly than he was used to.  
  
"You're a cruel woman, Sarah Mackenzie, I shouldn't let you in," he said, even as he opened the door wide to admit her. She passed under his arm, still grinning.  
  
"So," he said, closing it behind her, "what did the Admiral say?"  
  
"Wouldn't you just like to know," she replied, flicking an eyebrow up coquettishly.  
  
It couldn't have been that bad, Harm thought, she was openly flirting with him. He hoped.  
  
She stood there in the middle of his apartment, her eyes holding his.  
  
"He said to have a good weekend," she finally said.  
  
"Did he?" Harm replied, taking a step closer to her.  
  
"He did."  
  
"Those were his exact words?" He asked, standing right in front of her.  
  
"His exact words were 'you two have a good weekend,'" she said, having to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.  
  
He took a moment to digest that and squinted at her.  
  
"Now I don't know about you," he said, "but I take that to imply that he'd like us to spend the entire weekend together."  
  
"Is there some Naval handbook that I never got on decoding the pleasantries of superior officers?" She said, tilting her head in that way she had of engaging in banter with him.  
  
"You don't want to spend the weekend with me?"  
  
"I'm just trying to understand how a simple 'have a good weekend' not only condones 48 hours of fraternization, but also suggests it."  
  
He was gradually getting closer and closer to her, she could smell his aftershave.  
  
"We told the Admiral," he said, his face only inches from her own, "it's out of our hands now, Mac. The way I see it, we've been absolved of any misconduct by the anticipatory informing of our commanding officer." He leaned even closer. "It's not our fault he can't do anything until Monday." She nodded her head at this, fractionally. It was a tenuous conclusion he'd drawn, but she was having trouble arguing with it-she was distracted by his proximity. And his smell. "And you're evading my question, counselor."  
  
"Your question?" It came out as a whisper.  
  
"Do you want," his lips nipped at hers with a gossamer touch, "to spend the weekend with me?"  
  
Her eyes were heavy-lidded and she didn't answer for a moment.  
  
"What the hell," she finally said, and his mouth descended on hers in a torrent.  
  
The storm outside broke as well.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
The night would pass by without serious incident, but not without it's moments.  
  
For now few lights burned in the apartment and the bouquet of daisies sat forgotten on the counter.  
  
Mac straddled her partner on the edge of the bed that she'd been wanting to test for years. She tasted him for a moment and then pulled back, her mouth hovering over his. She didn't move, though her eyes flicked around the room.  
  
"What is it?" He whispered, so only she could hear.  
  
She smiled down at him. "Just. Savoring this," she said, though really she was waiting for something to happen. For a knock at the door or the phone to ring, for him to change his mind.  
  
Nothing came. Rain patted down on the glass, beading on his windows. Sounds from outside were muffled, as if the universe had seen fit to cocoon them tonight, leaning over a bit of writing so no one else could see.  
  
Fate's sopher certainly had a sense of humor, she thought. His fingers traveled up her arms, light as a feather, a whisper of wings along her skin. She finally felt the draw of flight.  
  
So this is what he feels, she thought, so this is what he loves.  
  
END OF PART THREE 


	4. Tidal, Part Four

TIDAL By Slippin' Mickeys red_phile@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Other Yada: In the first couple of chapters.  
  
Notes: This is the final chapter in my first JAGfic! I really do hope you enjoy and let me know that you did! Special thanks to usnavychic for the killer beta. I survived my first foray into JAG fandom. I have to thank everyone for all of their support and great reviews! I've been living on them!  
  
PART FOUR  
  
Some people were born to it. Things just happened to them. Whether it was an astrological assignment of being born under a certain sign, or a scientific law that hadn't yet been discovered, there were souls out there that happenstance followed around like a forlorn puppy. Harm was one of them.  
  
In his case, it was usually danger or drama that found him, and he seemed to be forever tethered between the two, east of the Rock and west of the Hard Place.  
  
Since being partnered with him, Mac had been sucked inexorably into his vortex of episodic phenomenon, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the unscrupulous nature of its assignment. She likely hadn't pictured herself in a future of such blatant unpredictability. He knew she wanted a normal life; a long and distinguished career in law, a husband, children, PTA meetings and anniversary diamonds, all safely enclosed in the proverbial white picket fence of American domesticity.  
  
She had to know what she was getting into-choosing a future with him in it- she was a smart woman. The knowledge that she'd done so anyway both broke his heart and buoyed it at the same time.  
  
As he watched her sleep next to him, he brought a hand unconsciously to his heart. He'd never before considered love a physical sensation. This woman, he thought to himself, he ached for her. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
They'd each fought against the singular attraction that they felt for each other. They'd tried ignoring it and masking it and burying it. They'd each tried replacing it. With every attempt at denial it seemed to manifest itself more aggressively until finally they gave in to it. After such a long fight, Harm was a bit thrown at how easy that had been.  
  
This however, was the challenge; the living of it. Playing it any other way would have been safe. You couldn't get burned if you stood outside the fire.  
  
He remembered cases they'd worked and endless hours they'd put in. Their lives together had held more than a fair amount of adventure and excitement, but the quiet times were the ones he truly coveted.  
  
When they worked late and the office had emptied out, he'd sometimes put on some music. He kept several CDs in his desk drawer, but Mac had always been partial to Paul Simon's Graceland. One day he'd take her to Africa, to Memphis.  
  
Two weeks ago, he thought, he was in the wrong lane, but going in the right direction. He'd been taking it slow with Mac for years, being ever so careful. He swallowed a breath and steeled himself. Overcorrection could make you lose control.  
  
Angels in the architecture, they reached for lo mien.  
  
He rolled out of bed and watched her sleep, standing guard over her dreams. He would hold on to this moment, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
She came awake slowly, stretching like a cat languorously in the warmth of the bed. She knew without looking that he was no longer laying next to her. She could hear him in the kitchen, trying to be quiet in that loud way of men.  
  
It was odd, how many times she'd been in his apartment, and yet this vantage point was completely foreign to her. She debated as to whether or not she should get up, but decided against it. The view may be strange, but she liked it. Surrounded here by his things, she felt-somewhat abstractly- as if he'd finally let her in.  
  
There was an especially loud crack from the kitchen and she heard his muffled curse. A moment later he approached and she pretended to be asleep. The mattress dipped near her hip as he sat down next to her.  
  
"Faker," he said a moment later, and she smiled and opened her eyes.  
  
He was smiling down at her himself, his eyes crinkled with affection. She returned his grin, feeling somewhat shy and took the steaming mug he held toward her, shifting up the bed to sit.  
  
"Did I wake you?" He said, looking pained at the thought.  
  
"Not at all," she replied, burying her nose in the aromatic steam of her mug.  
  
He took a sip from his own, and they each sat somewhat sheepishly as a silence stretched on.  
  
This was ridiculous, Mac thought to herself, considering some of the things they'd done the night before. Neither of them had been shy.  
  
She set her mug down on the nightstand next to her and leaned forward, letting the sheet fall away from her chest. She pushed her lips against his and stole one quick kiss, lingering in front of him for a moment.  
  
"Good morning," she said, and then leaned back, enjoying the startled, pleased look on his face.  
  
"Good morning," he returned, setting down his own mug and looking at her. She felt as if he were drinking her in instead.  
  
He rose and reached down, squeezing her knee through the sheets. He moved to the other side of the bed and flopped down next to her.  
  
"How did you sleep?" He asked, propping himself up on his elbow.  
  
"I didn't much," she said slyly, "but you already knew that. You were there."  
  
He grinned at that, looking smug. He ran a hand over his chest contentedly.  
  
"You look good when you wake up," he said without preamble.  
  
"This isn't the first time you've seen me first thing in the morning," she said.  
  
He reached out and took her hand in his. It was impossibly warm beneath her fingertips and soft as silk.  
  
"Not like this," he said.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
Sometimes, in flashes, she'd wonder at the thought of him wanting her the way he did. Like all women, she was never quite convinced at her own attractiveness, no matter how much evidence to the contrary was presented her. That he-this man who was himself alluring beyond all fairness, who always seemed to be preoccupied with matters far more important than love- would want her with the passion he seemed to, stunned her.  
  
It was also quite confidence-inspiring. She felt courageous and cavalier with the knowing of it.  
  
She lured him into the rain. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
Mac was standing in front of his big plate-glass window wearing one of his button-down shirts that was three sizes too big. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.  
  
"It stopped raining," she said, leaning back into him. He felt somewhat disappointed. The rain made his apartment feel more secluded and cozy.  
  
He didn't say anything, but sighed.  
  
"What was that for?" She asked him, catching his eyes in the reflection from the window.  
  
"It was a sigh of contentment," he answered, burying his nose in her hair.  
  
"Do you mind giving me a ride to my place this morning?" She asked him, "I want to pick up some things."  
  
"What kinds of things?" He said, beginning to nibble at her neck.  
  
"Clothes, mostly," she said, distracted.  
  
"I don't know. I don't intend to let you keep them on for very long."  
  
"Confident, aren't we?" She said, suddenly stepping away from him playfully. He leaned forward after her as if magnetized. "Come on, Rabb," she said, sauntering off to where her discarded uniform waited, "be a gentleman."  
  
She purposefully walked with her hips swaying a little more than usual and his thoughts took a decidedly ungentlemanly turn.  
  
An hour later he found himself standing in her living room while she shuffled about in her bedroom, taking more time to pack for a day and a half than any Marine should. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
How is it that he deserves this, he wonders later, dripping wet and sodden. He can feel bubbles squish their way up between his toes whenever he takes a step. How did he manage to find what others have searched their entire lives for? His clothes, soaking wet, stick to him like a second skin and he sends up a prayer of thanks. He's clearly one lucky son of a bitch.  
  
"Ready," she said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.  
  
He turned to her from examining a framed picture of Chloe that he'd seen a million times. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the promise of more foul weather. Harm recollected vaguely that the sailors in Chicago had called it the Witch of November.  
  
That flare of energy he got at seeing her out of uniform was back again and this time it passed between them. He opened the door for her and led her out without a word.  
  
They paused in the entranceway of Mac's building. Somewhere in between her apartment and the front door, the rain had begun anew. Harm had parked just north of her building, not two blocks away. He turned to her.  
  
"What do you think, Marine? Do we make a run for it?"  
  
She smiled at him then.  
  
"Haven't we already?" She said, taking a step backward, pushing the door open with her elbow.  
  
He cocked his head at her, squinting in question. She flashed him one more smile and then stepped into the rain, turning south.  
  
He'd taken risks in his life and she'd pulled his can out of the fire more than once. He knew he was a brave man, but admitted (if only to himself) that perhaps he could use a bit of work on his impulse control. He had no wish to lie in Flanders Field.  
  
He stood a moment watching her from the relative safety of the building's entrance. He could work on impulse control tomorrow-he followed her into the downpour. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
She heard his splashy footfalls behind her and turned, waiting for him to catch up. The rain was pouring down, she could feel the water soaking her shoulders and dripping off her hair. He grabbed her arm as he reached her, but didn't try to lead her anywhere.  
  
"What are we doing out here?" He asked, standing in front of her. Beside her.  
  
She finally realized that that was the difference between him and everyone else she'd ever loved. He stood beside her. He always had.  
  
"Well, I was going to ask you a question," she said, "but you already answered it."  
  
His shoulders were hunched up against the cold and wet and he gave her a questioning look.  
  
"You followed me," she said simply.  
  
A gust of wind came in then, bringing still more rain with it, now coming in almost sideways.  
  
"I'd follow you anywhere," he said.  
  
She was soaking wet and giddy. She grinned like an idiot.  
  
"You're crazy!" He shouted above the roar of the downpour around them. She knew he'd never seen her so madcap and juvenile. These were the things he invoked in her. Insane crashes of love, she couldn't help but act her shoe size.  
  
"I know!" She yelled back, thunder punctuating her admission.  
  
She felt crazy. Wild, happy. A laugh bubbled up from inside her.  
  
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like a soaked cat; miserable and bewildered. But there was something else in his look, too. An air of intrigue and affection surrounded him and it made her knees a little bit weak.  
  
Impossibly, the rain seemed to fall harder in a great whoosh around them.  
  
"I love you!" She suddenly shouted, almost bending double in the effort to be heard above the din of rushing water.  
  
"What?" He yelled above the roar.  
  
"I said I love you!" She yelled again, laughing.  
  
A smile bloomed across his face, even as rain poured down it in rivulets. He shook his head, laughing, and then took one great stride to her, catching her mouth with his.  
  
They walked down the street, caught in the rain, caught up with each other. Too warmed by the look of the other to be cold. If anyone bothered to pay them any attention, they'd see nothing but two people smiled upon by Eros.  
  
He took her home and wrapped her in a blanket and she decided that love was this, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
"You're like a clarinet sounds," he says to her in the night.  
  
She looks skeptical in the glow of a single burning candle.  
  
"Have you ever dropped acid, Harm?" She asks, but he refuses to let her break the trance she's charmed him into.  
  
"That's what I think of when I think of you. You're like a clarinet sounds, like a Miles Davis song."  
  
If his declaration is a little weird, it's unfailingly sweet. She feels tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she won't let them fall.  
  
"You're quiet, and calming. A little bit sad," he says, running a fingertip down her temple, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "But beautiful. And different. I lose myself in you."  
  
It was a midnight admission, pillow talk of the hopelessly fallen. There was a magic in candlelight as well-she knew she wasn't likely to get professions like this often-she looks into his eyes and holds it with her.  
  
"Where?" She whispers, the question barely audible.  
  
He touches a finger gently over her heart. "Here," he says, and moves it to her lips. "And here." She closes her eyes to that. "Everywhere."  
  
Knowing him was like eating an orange, she thinks. You have to peel away a lot to get to the center of him, but what you find there is wholly worthwhile.  
  
Tangy, sweet, and a little bit messy.  
  
"I know," she says, "you're it for me, too." ____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
In flight school he had a poem from Yeats taped to his bathroom mirror. He used to read it while brushing his teeth. "I know that I shall meet my fate, Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love." If he still had the sheet somewhere, he would throw it out. He stood watch now with his heart alone and he'd met his fate with two feet planted firmly on the ground. Yeats probably hadn't had Service A's and pumps in mind, but he could split the difference.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________  
  
What the Admiral said tomorrow didn't matter. What did matter was that they each had dreamed for themselves a future that was fulfilling and exciting and full of the things that make life worth living, and now their reality held the promise of even more. Few are blessed enough to live life knowing what they have, and fewer still are satisfied by it.  
  
Whatever did happen was fated to be, she knew this intrinsically. But she also knew that her future had Harm in it, whether that be in a professional capacity or not. That too, was fate.  
  
The earth would continue to circle the sun, just as it always had. The tides would rise with the moon, rain would fall and storms would rage; time would pass no slower or faster than since it dawned. Life would carry on. And so too, would Mac. But now with Harm beside her.  
  
She finally realizes that love is an epiphany borne of paying attention.  
  
It may the tragedies that stick out-the worst times are the most vividly remembered-but if you pay attention, if you shut up and just watch, you'll see things you never saw before. You'll see victory where you once saw defeat. Control where you once saw only chaos.  
  
You'll see love where you once couldn't see anything at all.  
  
All Harm needed was a push. All she needed was him.  
  
THE END 


End file.
